


Iron and Bones

by stapling_pages



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Betrayal, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood Magic, Character Death, Dark, Dark Magic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inappropriate Behavior, Inheritance, Life Debt, Light Magic, M/M, Manipulation, Moral Decay, Pureblood Culture, Romance, Slow Build, Underage - Freeform, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-10 11:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5583469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stapling_pages/pseuds/stapling_pages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chamber of Secrets was originally intended to be a ritual room. So when Harry enters the Chamber bleeding while the diary Horcrux is conducting a ritual to gain a body and unknowingly helps the ritual along, a debt is incurred. And every good wizard knows that a life debt must be repaid at all costs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They all held as still as they could as the light from Harry’s wand slid over the waxy, pale, and _empty_ snake skin. He let out a deep breath, shoulders dropping slightly. Lockhart made a pathetic noise as his knees gave way.

“Get up,” Ron said, prodding the man with his foot. Lockhart got to his feet—then he dived at Ron, knocking him to the ground. Harry jumped forward, but too late—Lockhart was straightening up, panting, Ron’s wand in his hand and a gleaming smile back on his face.

“The adventure ends here, boys!” he said. “I shall take a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I was too late to save the girl, and that you two _tragically_ lost your minds at the sight of her mangled body—say good-bye to your memories!” He raised Ron’s Spellotaped wand high over his head and yelled, _“Obliviate!”_

The wand exploded with the force of a small bomb.

Alarmed, Harry jerked back. He stumbled and tripped over loose rock and the long tail of the snake skin as he dodge falling chunks of the ceiling. In what seemed like seconds, he was separated from the others by a wall of stone. His arm throbbed painfully. A piece of the falling debris had scored a long, shallow cut on his left arm, spanning from elbow to wrist. Blood was already starting to seep sluggishly from the wound.

“Harry! You alright?” shouted Ron.

“Y-yeah, what about you?” he said. The wound was starting to burn a little and was bleeding faster. “Try to clear a way through alright? I’m gonna go on ahead and see if I can find Ginny!”

“Sure. Be careful!”

He left Ron and the grating of shifting rock behind, following the snake skin deeper into the tunnel. Stumbling around a final bend, Harry reached a smooth dry wall. Two large serpents were carved into it, each with large eyes that glistened in the weak light from his wand. He used a bloody hand to steady himself as he tried to catch his breath. Unnoticed, jewel-eyes flickered to an ominous red before dimming. With a fortifying breath, Harry straightened up and stepped away.

 _“Open,”_ he hissed.

A seam split the stone snakes apart, and the doors opened soundlessly. Quietly, Harry stepped inside the chamber. His footsteps echoed strangely around the carving covered pillars, the tops of which disappeared into deep shadows. The serpent carvings appeared to move when he wasn’t looking closely and some seemed to have rubies for eyes. Harry hurried his pace, leaving behind a small trail of blood droplets, some of which landed on tiny runes carved into the stone floor.

Eventually he reached an end of the chamber, and there, at the base of a massive statue of a wizard, was Ginny. Heart hammering in his throat, Harry sprinted to her. He dropped to his knees beside her and pushed aside a vaguely familiar open-faced book, leaving a bloody smear across its pages, to press his fingers against her pulse. It was faint but still steady. That was good.

“Come on,” Harry said, lifting the girl to shake her, “please wake up.” Her head lolled to one side.

“She won’t wake, Harry Potter.”

He flinched then turned to look over his shoulder. The room swam so he reached out to steady himself. A tall, dark-haired boy was standing behind him, watching with a strange expression. His body was bit transparent and was misty around the edges. The boy blinked once, twice, and then brought a hand up to rub at his temple.

“You—Tom Riddle?”

“Yes.” Tom smiled. He seemed distracted by something, and Harry thought he saw the other boy’s eyes lose focus for a bit as they drifted to stare at his injured arm. Tom blinked again, shaking his head. Now there was a strained quality to his expression as though the slytherin was suffering a particularly bad headache.

“Listen,” he began. There were questions he should be asking, Harry knew, but he was starting to lose feeling in the fingers of his left hand and that, he was sure, wasn’t good. “We have to get out of here. Can you hel—”

“There is no rush,” said Tom. He took a few steps closer. “Let’s talk, Harry Potter.”

He was close enough now to loom over Harry. The misty edges of his body were solidifying though Tom didn’t seem to notice. He was about to say something else but stopped, closing his mouth with an audible click. Swallowing, he opened his mouth and shut it again.

Alarm grew in the pit of Harry’s stomach. Something was wrong; very, very wrong. Tom’s eyes were wide and glazed, staring fixated at Harry’s arm, although the older boy didn’t seem to realize it. A strange buzzing filled the air, quiet at first but growing in intensity until the gryffindor could feel it in his teeth like a dull ache.

“You are . . . bleeding.” It seemed like Tom was about to say more, but then he was screaming. Fingers dug into his scalp and pulled at his hair as the slytherin folded in on himself, taking painful, gasping breaths between screams. He was completely solid now but was shrinking bit by bit until Tom was smaller than Harry was and swimming in oversized robes. Shivering, he laid there.

“Tom?” Harry said quietly. “Are you okay?” He inched forward, reaching out with a trembling hand to shake the other boy’s shoulder. Muscles twitched and tensed under his hand. Blearily, Tom forced himself to his knees. “Tom?”

“I’m fine.” He stood slowly, shivering and swaying but steadier than Harry thought possible. Tom rested a cold— _freezing_ —hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, shall we? I’ll need to borrow your wand, alright?” With a wordless nod, Harry handed the other boy his wand. Tom took it and let go of Harry’s shoulder to pull up the sleeve of his robe. A flick of his wrist and a white bandage was wrapping itself around Harry’s forearm tightly. “That should hold for a bit.”

Next, he flicked the wand at his oversized robe, shrinking it until he could move without tripping over its hem. With a final jab, Ginny rose steadily off the floor. Harry scrambled to his feet, leaning against Tom’s side as blood loss tilted the room on its axis.

“Your diary . . .”

“It’s just a book now.”

In silence, they walked out of the chamber and down the tunnel to the cave-in. Ron had managed to open a tight passage way at the top of the wall.

“Ron!”

There was some scuffling on the other side.

“Harry?” Ron yelled. “Are you alright; is Ginny with you?”

“Yeah, but she’s unconscious. We’ll levitate her through, oaky? Oh, and Tom’s here, too.”

“Alright. Ready when you are,” said Ron. Tom waved his borrowed wand and levitated Ginny up and through the opening. “Got her!” Slowly, Harry and Tom climbed their way up to the hole. By the time they made it up there, Ron was back at the top on his side waiting for them; he gaped at them. They were pale, clammy, and leaning heavily against each other for support. “Blimey, what happened to you?”

“Not really sure. Got a nasty cut during the cave-in though.”

Ron grimaced while moving back to give Harry enough room to crawl through to the other side. Once he was through and the two second years had started their way down, Tom followed suit. Lockhart was near where Ginny was lying, grinning for no apparent reason.

“Hello; who’re you?” Lockhart said brightly. “Do you live down here?”

Harry blinked then turned to Ron.

“Apparently, when he tried to Obliviate us it didn’t just bring the ceiling down. It erased his memories, too.” He shrugged. “By the way,” he turned to Tom, “who _are_ you?”

“Tom Riddle.”

“Wait, Riddle as in the diary Riddle? How’d you get out?” Ron stared at him as though he had grown another head. “And aren’t you supposed to be a fifth year or something?”

Tom ignored the questions. “We should be getting to the hospital wing.” With that he turned away, pulling Harry back to his side. “Mr. Lockhart, if you would carry Miss Weasley?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he tugged Harry insistently back toward the pipe-slide. Ron and Lockhart scrambled to catch up.

The group reached the slide without incident. Tom glanced briefly over his shoulder then stepped closer to a blank space of wall just beside where the slide ended. Quickly, he hissed the command for a staircase back to the surface. Harry frowned.

Tom must have noticed, because he then said, “We can talk about this later, when neither of us are about to kneel over.” Reluctantly, he agreed.

The wall groaned but moved aside, revealing the stairwell just as the other two reached them.

“That . . . wasn’t here before,” said Ron, squinting suspiciously at the slytherin.

“Really?” He didn’t bother to appear surprised. They began climbing the stairs, ignoring the shriek of surprise from Ron when the stairs began moving up.

“This is just like magic!” Lockhart shouted happily.

There was no one waiting for them in the bathroom. For a long awkward moment, they just stood there, shuffling in place and avoiding each other’s eyes. Then, almost as one, the group turned and marched out into the corridor. They were half way to the hospital wing when a harried Professor McGonagall stumbled upon them.

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley,” she rounded on them immediately, “what on earth are you doing out of your common room?” She glanced behind them, saw Ginny’s pale form, and gasped. “Oh dear. Hospital wing, then?” She said this more to herself than anyone else. Swiftly, the professor turned on her heel and began leading them. “And don’t think I don’t see you there, Tom Riddle.”

The boy in question huffed, but thankfully remained quiet. Now that the ordeal seemed to be drawing to a close, there were a lot of questions Harry wanted answered. What had Tom’s diary been doing down in the Chamber? Why had he been so sure that Ginny wouldn’t wake up? What had happened to cause him to de-age like that? Harry had the creeping suspicion that he wouldn’t like the answers.

They arrived at the hospital wing without fanfare, and were ushered into beds while Professor McGonagall knocked on the door to Madam Pomfrey’s office. Tom settled on the same bed as Harry and refused to move; he didn’t let Harry move to another bed either. The nurse answered immediately, clicking her tongue irritably as she gave the scattered group an onceover, honing in on Ron’s sister.

“Honestly, children running about doing adults’ work,” she muttered, waving her wand over Ginny’s body in sweeping arcs and pausing to read something only she could see before beginning again. Professor McGonagall cast a cleaning charm on each of them, and an additional one of their beds, clearing away most of the slime and gunk they’d accumulated on their adventure.

“I’m an adult!” protested Lockhart.

_“Children running about.”_

He wilted into a sulk.

Harry and Ron snickered, and Tom tried to cover a laugh under a polite cough. Even Professor McGonagall was amused, the stress easing from her expression enough for her to smile warily as she sank into a guest chair near their beds. That didn’t last long, however. Soon, she turned to the three boys, arms crossed and head tilted reproachfully.

“Perhaps one of you would like to explain to me what exactly happened tonight?”

Ron swallowed, glanced at Harry who was picking at his sleeve, and then started rambling. “We overheard that Ginny had been the one taken, and we’d figured out where the entrance to the Chamber was and what the creature was, so we went to tell Lockhart. But he’d been packing up to run away!” He waved an arm in the man’s direction, glaring for good measure. “So we, ah, took his wand and made him come with us.”

Shaking her head, Professor McGonagall sighed heavily.

“But when we got there, he stole my wand and tried to Obliviate us—but my wand’s broken, so he erased his own memories instead. And caused a cave-in. Me and Harry got separated. He went on and I cleared rocks outta the way so that they could get back through.” He paused, shrugged helplessly and said, “Lockhart was useless.”

“Very well. And you, Mr. Potter?”

“Well,” he said, “Ginny was unconscious, and Tom was there.” Harry turned suddenly and stared at the slytherin. “Why were you there?”

Tom grimaced. “Finish your account, and then I’ll explain.”

“Anyway, Tom was there but he wasn’t solid at first. But then something happened, he became solid and shrunk, and we left. On our way here, we ran into you and you know the rest.”

“You were bleeding,” said Tom, unhelpfully.

There was a minor flurry of activity as Professor McGonagall scolded him for not saying anything earlier while Ron was sent to grab a jar of ointment and a blood-replenisher from the cabinet. The conjured bandage was removed. Frowning, the professor muttered a cleaning charm and then spelled the cut closed, leaving a long pinkish line. She accepted the jar from Ron and rubbed some of the ointment lightly over the scab. Harry drank the potion, gagging at the awful taste.

The professor turned to Tom, her expression grim, and waited.

“I have been trapped in a book for the past fifty years,” Tom said, with a pinched look. “Miss Weasley had agreed to help me regain my freedom, but unfortunately, the preparations took time. We were going to do the ritual tonight but . . .” He glanced sadly at Ginny. “I can’t tell you how she got down there or who it was; I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“Well,” cut in Madam Pomfrey, “regardless of that, you all will be happy to know that Miss Weasley will make a full recovery, after some rest and a few hot meals.” She was smiling faintly.

Ron collapsed against his pillows in relief. “Thank Merlin.”

“I’ll let the others know while you finish up here, Minerva.”

“Thank you, Poppy. And tell their older brothers as well; the entrance is set to the emergency protocols.”

Professor McGonagall turned back to Tom as the nurse left, and signaled for him to continue.

“The Chamber’s ambient magic must have triggered the first half of the ritual. Until Harry arrived, I was stuck in an immaterial state and so I wasn’t able to help Miss Weasley at all.” Frowning thoughtfully, he paused. “Because of his wound, some of his blood got on my diary and that must have finished the ritual. As for how I ended up regressing to whatever age I am now, I’ve no idea.” With a sigh and a shrug, he ended his story.

It was strange. There was no reason for it, but Harry couldn’t help feeling as though something about what Tom had said was wrong. As far as he could tell, there was no reason for the other boy to lie, and everything he had said made sense. Professor McGonagall seemed to thinks so too, because she frowned and gave the slytherin a hard, searching look.

“How did you end up trapped in a book in the first place?” she said, leaning back in her chair. “It wasn’t as though you suddenly disappeared during our school years.”

For a second, Harry thought that Tom was going to ignored her or try to brush off the question. He looked down, laced his fingers together, and then unlaced them. His cheeks reddened.

“I might,” Tom began slowly, “have . . . _miscalculated._ ”

“Miscalculated,” she repeated dryly. “And what, exactly, did you miscalculate?”

He winced. “I was experimenting with divination and soul magic to see if the latter could be used to amplify the success rate of the former. I was hasty and didn’t think to double-check the rune sequence I was using; I overestimated the amount of power needed as well.” Tom smiled sheepishly. “Instead of what I wanted, I ended up imprinting—and possibly replicating—my consciousness onto a book.”

“Quick question,” Ron broke in, “why were you experimenting with _divination_?”

“I was bored.”

One of the hospital wing doors flew open with such force that it rebounded off the wall. Mrs. Weasley rushed past them with the rest of the Weasley brood on her heels; they crowded around Ginny’s bed. Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey entered after them. She went over to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

Smiling faintly, the headmaster looked around the room. He froze, smile cracking and morphing into a stern frown as soon as he spotted Tom. The slytherin stared back impassively. Dumbledore moved to tower them. A long, heavy silence settled around them. Harry swallowed nervously.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to think that I have commitment issues when it comes to writing.

“Mr. Riddle, it was unexpected to see you again,” said Professor Dumbledore, “especially since I seem to recall you graduating quite a number of years ago.”

“The same to you, sir. Miss Weasley had told me that the school governors had relieved you of your post.” Tom smiled pleasantly. “It’s a little surprising that they’ve allowed you to enter the castle without an official to escort you.”

Harry sat perfectly still, staring straight ahead at Fawkes’ perch, and tried to ignore the heavy tension filling the room. Despite Madam Pomfrey’s grumbled protests, Dumbledore had marched Tom and Harry out of the hospital wing and straight to his office. He hadn’t even bothered to speak with Professor McGonagall, simply nodding at her while ushering the boys out. Now that they were there, though, the other two seemed happy to smile blithely and make polite but snide conversation with each other. All they needed were dainty, floral teacups, tea dresses, and pearl earrings, and it would be just like one of his aunt’s luncheons.

Tom’s smile turned stiff.

“Regardless,” the slytherin said after an awkward pause, “there was a something you wanted to speak to us about, Professor?”

“Yes, yes.”

The professor leaned forward to rest his elbows on his desk, giving each of them a reproving look over his interlocked fingers. Swallowing, Harry pushed down the sudden pang of guilt but dropped his gaze to stare morosely at the floor. From the corner of his eyes, Tom looked strangely amused.

“How did this come about?” There was a strange note to Dumbledore’s voice, half way between dismay and hilarity. Tom’s lips curled into the beginnings of a sneer, and he looked away.

Resolutely ignoring their byplay, Harry recounted what they had told McGonagall, adding that it was Hermione who had figured out what Slytherin’s monster was and how they had discovered where the entrance to the Chamber was. He also included the explanation Tom had given. The professor was frowning when he finished; he turned to Tom.

“Is there anything you wish to add, Mr. Riddle?”

“No, sir.”

“I suppose it would be safe to assume you have no idea what your, shall we say, _other self_ has been up to over the years?”

Tom clenched his jaw. “That is correct, sir.”

The Headmaster’s office fell silent, save for the muttering of the portraits lining the walls. There was something going on that Harry was missing. What little he and his friends had found on their search earlier in the year to figure out who Tom Riddle was all pointed to him living a quiet life after Hogwarts, despite all of his academic achievements. So why was Dumbledore acting like he had done something awful? Had Tom’s other self been forced to join Voldemort? He _was_ a slytherin and most of the Death Eaters seemed to have come from that House. His mouth fell into a grim line. They must have blackmailed or threatened him with something terrible.

With a heavy sigh, Dumbledore rose from his chair and stepped around the desk to stand between the boys. He drew his wand and pointed it at Tom. The boy in question sprung up from his seat with such force that it was pushed back several inches, and backed away from the elder wizard, reaching for a wand that wasn’t there. His face had lost what little color it had and he looked ready to bolt. The professor didn’t seem surprised by his behavior, if anything he seemed resigned.

Harry stood slowly, glancing between the two with alarm. “What’s going on?”

“I was merely going to cast a spell to discern what age Mr. Riddle had regressed to.”

“Harry will cast it,” Tom demanded. He didn’t wait for Dumbledore to agree. “The spell is _fateor aetas_ ; the movement a complete counter-clockwise circle ending in a sharp, upward flick.” Nodding, the gryffindor pulled out his wand and practiced the movement a few times.

“Okay,” he said in warning, before casting the spell at Tom. A purplish cloud formed in front of his chest. It did nothing but hover there for a bit then slowly split and formed the number twelve. Tom grimaced.

“Lovely.”

“So it seems that you will be joining the incoming second years this September!” Dumbledore beamed at the disgruntled boy. “As you are aware, there is a fund for students who require it; you will, of course, receive your yearly allowance when the material lists are sent out in August. All that remains to be seen to is where you will be residing during the summer months.”

“Uh, why can’t Tom join the third years? I mean, he was in sixth—”

“Fifth,” Tom corrected.

“Fifth year. It’s not as though he doesn’t know the material, and he could take different electives . . .” Harry trailed off at the amusement on the slytherin’s face. “What?”

“I was taking all of the available electives.”

“Oh . . . but still.” Harry turned to stare pleadingly at Dumbledore.

“I will take it into consideration, Harry. However, there is another matter that must be addressed.” Dumbledore seemed to age before his eyes. “It is a terrible thing for me to ask of you, Tom, but in light of particular circumstances, I feel I must.” Here, he took a deep breath and drew himself to his full height. “Tom Marvolo Riddle, given the actions taken by your other self against the Wizarding populous of the United Kingdom I, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, demand that you make a Vow of Allegiance to a person, or persons, of unimpeachable morality. Failure to do so will result in your immediate detainment.”

Harry gaped at the professor in horror. “Isn’t that too harsh? He was stuck in a book. Even—even if the other Tom did something really bad, it wasn’t _him_!” He turned to Tom, who didn’t look shocked at all by the demand.

“Be as it may,” said Dumbledore, tiredly, “I cannot allow for anything else. The laws are clear.”

Harry snapped his mouth shut.

There were laws about this? How often did this sort of thing happen, for there to be _laws_ about it?! He took a deep breath through his nose in preparation to argue. A hand settled on his shoulder. He turned and, to his surprise, found Tom smiling at him.

“Its fine,” Tom said softly. His eyes were gentle and, Harry realized with a start, a dark greyish violet. “I owe you a life debt anyway.”

“What?” Harry and Dumbledore exclaimed in unison.

Tom hummed but didn’t answer. He grabbed the other boy’s hand then adjusted his grip so that Harry’s left hand was resting in his right, palm faced down. With surprising grace, he sank to his knees and bowed his head.

“I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, so vow to you, Harry James Potter, in the name of Magic to act as your sword and shield against your enemies and those who would wish you harm, to act as an extension of your will and for the glorification of your name, honor, and House, and to serve in your name until the time that Death claims me. So mote it be.”

As he spoke a heavy pressure built up in Harry’s chest, pressing down on something under his heart that he was sure wasn’t really there. It crawled into his throat, chocking him. The room seemed to dim and brighten at the same time, creating a harsh, grainy world.

Finally, Harry managed to rasp out, “So mote it be.”

The pressure snapped and the world returned to normal. A band of jagged, grey-violet swirls appeared around Harry’s wrist, looping together in a dizzying pattern that made his head hurt to look at. The skin around it itched like a half-healed sunburn. Tom’s hand was shaking; the skin around his eyes greyish and pinched. He frowned and helped the kneeling boy to his feet.

Breathing raggedly, Tom fell forward to bury his face in the crook of Harry’s shoulder. Unease crept into the pit of Harry’s stomach. They’d left the hospital wing without getting checked over, and magical vows and oaths weren’t a particularly _nice_ sort of magic to do even when you were healthy. Who knew just how taxing his jerry-rigged revival ritual had been on the slytherin? It was pretty obvious that he hadn’t even begun to recover from it. Unconsciously, his arm rose to wrap around Tom’s waist.

“I think,” he began slowly, eyeing Dumbledore who watched them with a distressingly blank expression, “that Tom and I should go back to the hospital wing.”

The professor jumped, blinking rapidly, and removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Yes, of course. There are a few documents that will need to be filled out, but I’ll send those along in the morning.”

Nodding, Harry shouldered one of Tom’s arms and led him out of the office. The walk back to the Hospital Wing was quiet save for Tom’s uneven breathing. There were a lot of questions that Harry wanted answered, but given that Tom was on the verge of unconsciousness even as they descended a flight of stairs, they would have to wait. They rounded a corner, nearing passing through the Bloody Baron, who paused in his wandering to watch them stumble along until they were out of sight.

The Hospital Wing doors swung open, and Percy stepped out with a determined frown on his face. It dissolved into surprise for a brief second as he caught sight of them then into turned into anger. He hurried over and knelt down.

“What happened?” He pressed his fingers against Tom’s wrist and looked at his watch.

“Dumbledore had Tom make a Vow of Allegiance . . .” Harry trailed off as Percy’s head snapped up. A flurry of emotions swept across the prefects face: shock, disbelief, horror, anger. Finally, it settled into a grim sort of calm.

“It’s against the law for anyone under the age of seventeen to make an allegiance vow.”

Tom lifted his head from Harry’s shoulder. “It—it is?”

“Yes,” said Percy, nodding. “It used to be legal for anyone fifteen or older, but the law was changed in 1979 after a number of pureblood heirs nearly died because of vows they had made during school.” He looked down at his watch, then let go of the younger boy’s wrist. “Your heart rate seems stable, at least.”

Percy stood up and pulled open one of the doors to usher them into the Hospital Wing. The rest of the Weasley family—aside from Ron, who had moved to sit at Hermione’s bedside—was still crowded around Ginny. He looked up as Harry settled Tom onto the bed next to them, and tried to smile.

“How’d things go?” he asked.

Harry shrugged helplessly. “I don’t . . . I don’t know.”

“Not good, then.”

He collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands. The past twelve hours had been one mess after another. Ginny’s abduction, whatever the hell happened down in the Chamber, and Dumbledore forcing him and Tom into an illegal vow. He looked up. Tom was being checked over by Pomfrey, tiredly answering her questions and downing occasional potion she gave him, and the Weasleys still hadn’t noticed them. Turning, he made eye contact with Ron and mouthed ‘later.’ The other boy nodded.

 

* * *

 

When he woke, the room was quiet save for the steady breathing of the other occupants. Tom sat up slowly, keeping his expression mild in case any of the staff was around. Confirming that the coast was clear, he rose from the cot and moved to Potter’s bedside. Pulling open the end table’s drawer, he removed Potter’s wand, shivering at the rush of warmth.

How strange it was, for Potter’s wand to feel so similar to his own.

He turned to his target and smiled disdainfully, raising the wand to tap it against his cheek. Ginny slept on peacefully, unaware of the danger she was still in.

“I wonder. Should I wake you up so that you’ll know you can’t warn your beloved family?” Closing his eyes, he let himself imagine the look of horror she would have once she woke up and realized that her nightmare wasn’t over. Tom sighed happily. “Or should I let you flounder about as you try to warn them about the snake in their midst?” Tom opened to stare at her as though she would answer. “Which would be more amusing?”

Spinning the wand through his fingers and ignoring the sparks of silver and gold it created, he went over the possibilities. Her struggles would be hilarious either way, especially if she tried to turn Potter against him. Speaking of . . .

He glanced over his shoulder at Potter and grinned. “Of course, I do have to protect my dear king, now don’t I?” Tom turned back, leveling the wand with the girl’s chest.

“Sorry, Ginny dear.”

 

* * *

 

The minute Harry and Tom were released from the Hospital Wing, they hurried to an abandoned room in a little used portion of the castle. The room was set up similar to Lockhart’s office, with a sitting room and a staircase leading up to a balcony and a second room. Below the balcony was another door leading to a small bathroom.

Harry sat down on one of the sofas, running his hands over the green suede. “I didn’t realize that Hogwarts had guest quarters.”

“They don’t get used often,” said Tom. “They’re maintained so that in the event of an attack, there’s someplace to put the people who come here seeking sanctuary. A room like this would be given to a family of four, maybe six or seven if the children are young.”

He pushed aside a tapestry, bit his thumb hard enough to break skin, and smeared his blood over a series of runes carved into the wall. The runes absorbed the blood, glowing a dark violet for several seconds. Letting the tapestry fall back in place, he walked over to the seats and sat next to the gryffindor. Harry frowned at the bite and past over his wand so that the slytherin could heal it; Tom smiled in thanks.

“I slept here until the middle of my fourth year, when the professors finally realized I wasn’t sleeping in the slytherin dorms.”

“Why,” he asked, harsher than he meant to. “Usually you slytherins are all about house unity; very _‘us versus them.’_ ”

It was a prevalent mentality amongst the slytherins that, because of their house, the entire school was against them and that justified the bullying some of them indulged in. It also didn’t help that Snape and, Harry reluctantly admitted, Dumbledore turned a blind eye to their actions. More than one gryffindor had returned to the common room in tears because of it.

“I was an orphaned half-blood with a _muggle_ surname.” Tom smiled bitterly. “My housemates assumed I was a muggle-born, and since most of them were from traditionalist, pureblood families . . . well. House unity,” he said with an impressive sneer, crossing his arms defensively, “didn’t have any room for me. I took measures to make sure I wasn’t smothered in my sleep or something equally as horrid. This was one of them.”

He winced, nodding slowly. “And the runes?”

“A combination of a privacy, and an ill-intent ward. We’ll be able to speak freely here.”

Harry smiled nervously. They had a bit longer before the potion to unpetrify the basilisk’s victims was finished, and the Weasleys had returned to the Burrow, taking Ron and his siblings with them. Now was the best time for him to get answers, if he could work up the courage to ask. Tom sat passively, watching him shift and wring his hands in silence.

“How is it that you can speak parseltongue?” Harry blurted out.

“My mother’s family claimed to be descendants of Slytherin.” He pretended not to notice the gryffindor’s sudden alarm. “How true that is, though, is up for debate. It’s not like they kept detailed records until the mid-1700s, and plenty of Greco-Roman families list parseltongue among their abilities. It’s just as likely, if not more so, that my ability to speak it comes from one of them.” Tom stared at some unseen point for a bit. Suddenly, he shook his head and asked, “What about you?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. I pretty sure neither of my parents could speak it, though.”

“A mystery, then.” He seemed pleased by that.

“What about the life debt?”

“Well, being locked in a book can hardly be considered _living_ , can it? And,” he looked down, “if the ritual had failed, I probably would have died.”

Harry swallowed.

“Is that why you’ve been kind of . . . clingy?” He winched. “N-not that I mind! It’s just . . .” It was really weird. For the past few days, whenever they were awake Tom would be _right there,_ pressed up against his side. Even now, their knees were touching and Tom had tangled their legs together.

The other boy blinked, and then blushed. “Sorry; I haven’t been doing that consciously. I guess I’m a bit touch-starved.” With an uncomfortable smile, he untangled his legs from Harry’s.

There was a creeping sort of guilt in the back of Harry’s mind now, but he forced himself to hold firm. Outside of Hermione and Ron, he still wasn’t used to people touching him so frequently or easily. He could still remember how jarring and awful it had been when he was eleven and all those witches and wizards had crowded around him, determined to shake his hand. The occasional pat on the back or hug wasn’t bad, but having it happen all the time? It made his skin crawl.

Tom glanced at him, then away and then back again like he wanted to say something. He sighed.

“Dumbledore decided that, given the vow, I’ll be stay with you at your relatives for the summer.”

“How did he get them to agree?!” Harry yelled, jumping out of his seat. The other boy shrugged, watching him pace the room.

“Will it be a problem?”

“I donno,” Harry said around his thumbnail. “They hate magic; who knows how they’ll react to another wizard staying there.”

“I see,” said Tom in a chilled voice. Slowly, the gryffindor stopped pacing. There was a cold, calculating expression on Tom’s face that reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t remember who.

“Tom,” he began.

“We should head out.” He stood up, smiling coldly, and wrapped his hand loosely around Harry’s wrist. “It will be lunch soon.”


	3. Chapter 3

Early on the 10th, Professor Snape finished brewing the potion that would unpetrify Hermione and the others. Harry tried to visit her then, but was blocked by Madam Pomfrey, who told him in no uncertain terms that Hermione wasn’t to be bothered until she had had time to reconcile the time she had lost. This meant it was several days before Harry was allowed into the hospital wing. Tom had done what he could to distract him, dragging Harry along on when he wandered the castle. They had amassed a stockpile of random things, some of which would sell for a fair bit of money or so the slytherin claimed.

That morning when he arrived at the hospital wing, Hermione was just starting to tuck into a late breakfast. She stirred her oatmeal listlessly, staring down at it blankly with a mutinous frown. The other patients were eating their meals with much more enthusiasm. Colin Creevey paused long enough to wave; Harry waved back half-heartedly.

“Are you that mad about missing classes?” he asked with a grin as he reached her bedside.

“They won’t let me read,” Hermione complained without looking up, “said I had to _rest._ ” She lifted a spoonful and let it slowly fall back into the bowl in globs. “I’ve rested long enough, I think.”

Grinning, he sat on the guest chair; Tom, who had decided to follow him, commandeered another one. Hermione looked up, irritable frown fading into a watery smile. Dropping her spoon, she gestured for Harry to lean over and hugged him tightly.

“They told me what happen.” She sniffed, hiding her face against his shoulder. “I glad you’re okay.” Harry felt his own eyes begin to water. Behind them, Tom shifted awkwardly. With a final squeeze, Harry pulled back, letting his friend cling to his hand as she gathered herself. Her brown eyes were still bright with tears as she turned to the slytherin.

Harry cleared his throat. “Um, this is Tom Riddle; Tom, this is Hermione Granger.” He tried to smile, but it felt strained.

“Hi,” Hermione said. Her voice was mild and rather unenthused, which wasn’t surprising. Most slytherins were right bastards towards her; she was probably expecting Tom to be the same. Honestly, _Harry_ expected Tom to be the same and he’d had a fortnight’s worth of evidence that proved Tom _wasn’t_ like other slytherins. But it was fourteen days verses two years of experience, so he tried not to feel too guilty about it.

“Hello.” Tom smiled and held out his hand. He seemed to pretend not to notice the wariness in Hermione’s eyes as she glanced between him and his hand before reaching a decision. She shook his hand, just long enough to be polite. Hermione’s mouth twisted as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. A heavy silence fell over them. It was Harry’s turn to feel awkward as they stared at each other.

Finally, she looked away and smiled at her fellow gryffindor. She immediately began asking him if he kept up with his reviewing for exams—never mind that they had been cancelled—and if she could borrow his notes. Harry laughed nervously. This, unsurprisingly, invoked a lecture on healthy study habits interspersed with bites of oatmeal. Through it all, Tom maintained a polite but distant smile and didn’t say much of anything.

Behind them, the door opened. Hermione glanced over with a spoonful of oatmeal halfway to her mouth, paused, and then smiled awkwardly, letting her arm drop. Harry turned to look, too; Professor McGonagall had entered.

“Hello, Professor,” they chorused.

“Good morning,” said the professor, smiling. “I’m glad to see you are well, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

Professor McGonagall turned to Tom, who was watching them curiously. “Mr. Riddle, there are a few matters that still need to be addressed before the summer holiday. If you would come with me, we will get this sorted out.” She tilted her head toward the door.

“Of course.” He rose from his chair. Glancing over, he dipped his head at Hermione. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Yes; you as well.”

Tom nodded and smiled briefly; he clasped Harry on the shoulder, and then left, following behind Professor McGonagall. The two gryffindors sat in companionable silence as Hermione finished her breakfast. Harry missed this, just being able to sit with his friends and _be,_ without having to worry about some harrowing plot or adventure. Slowly, they began talking about the lessons she had missed, and all the things that had happened to him and Ron.

“It’s strange,” Hermione said suddenly, “I’ve never seen you be so comfortable with someone you just met before.”

“Does it really seem that way? I hadn’t noticed.” He really hadn’t, but he supposed it made sense. Tom had insisted on following Harry around instead of catching up on current events or getting to know his new housemates, and Harry, contrary to his usual tendencies, hadn’t protested much. In fact, he realized with a start, he had accepted _and expected_ it as par the course. A chill crawled up his spine. “Hermione, what do you know about vows?”

“Vows?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “Allegiance vows, specifically.”

“Well,” she began slowly, eyeing Harry in suspicion, “there are several different types, each with different levels of intensity.

“The most common are the vows given when you join an exclusive organization. They usually just say that you’ll put your all into furthering the group’s goals and upholding it principles; fairly standard stuff.” Hermione shrugged then began counting points off. “After that, we have vows between Houses or families. These typically only last for a few generations before they need to be renewed. They have a lot of terms and conditions built into them, and are written up by a third party.

“There are allegiances of war, which nowadays are mainly used to prevent the involved parties from declaring war on each other instead of their original purpose; the United Kingdom currently has one with Canada and America. What else . . .” She gazed up at the ceiling then snapped to attention. “Oh! And there are vassalage vows.”

Harry shook himself. “Wait, like, medieval knights and stuff?”

“Similar, yes, though vows are much more powerful, obviously,” said Hermione. “Before the founding of the Ministry, the lords of the Great Houses were expected to swear vassalage vows to the Royal Crown in return for being allowed to govern the wizarding populous without much interference. I think the last time this happened was in the early 1800s, but the family in question disappeared. No one is sure what happened and—”

“Hermione!”

She blushed and hurried on. “Right, sorry. Currently, vassalage oaths and vows are heavily regulated by the Ministry, and the majority of them are extremely illegal. And for good reason too; a lot of them are restrictive enough that it’s more or less a beautified version of slavery.” She shook her head in disgust.

Harry bit back a flinch, swallowing, and looked down. He hadn’t thought much about the vow, perhaps because he hoped it would just go away if he ignored it, but now . . . He rubbed the band of color circling his wrist roughly.

“Hey,” Hermione said gently, reaching out to hold his hand, “what’s wrong?”

“I—I . . .”

Her hand tightened reassuringly around his but she didn’t press, waiting for him to put his thoughts in order. He was grateful for that, because Hermione had inadvertently confirmed just how off this entire situation was. Too many things weren’t adding up and Harry had no idea how to deal with it. Swallowing, Harry looked up with a shaky attempt at a smile.

“Harry . . .”

“How do you break them?”

A look of dumbfounded horror crossed her face. For a long while, Hermione did nothing but stare, mouth floundering soundlessly as she tried to think of a response. Harry slumped forward, dropping his head so he couldn’t see the disappointment that would surely be there once she came back to herself.

“Harry.” He closed his eyes in denial. “Harry, look at me please.” Reluctantly, he looked up. She still looked horrified but now it was tempered by concern. “Who was it?”

“Dumbledore,” he began, looking down again. Hermione sucked in a breath. “He made Tom swear one. To me.”

“That doesn’t—why?”

“Because of Tom’s other—real?—self. I’m not really sure _why,_ exactly; I haven’t asked and it’s not like Tom would know . . .” Harry trailed off and pulled up his sleeve so that she could see the mark. Hermione said nothing. Unnerved, he glanced at her and swallowed. A complicated expression that he couldn’t decipher was on Hermione’s face. “He said something about becoming my ‘sword and shield’, I think.”

“That,” she said slowly, “sounds like one of the better ones.” The strange look was still on her face, though now she was chewing on her lower lip thoughtfully. Eventually, she sighed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know now to break it.”

That had been about what he had expected, but it was still painful to hear. “It was worth a shot.”

Squeezing his hand, Hermione looked away.

 

* * *

 

The final week of his second year passed quickly despite Harry’s best efforts to draw it out. Before long, they were on the Hogwarts Express heading back to London.

Nerves rioted in the pit of his stomach. Professor McGonagall had said that the Dursleys had accepted the addition of another wizard in their household for the summer, but Harry couldn’t help but doubt that. His relatives were very forward with their dislike of anything out of the ordinary, and especially magic. Another wizard, regardless of how mild-mannered and polite, would definitely trample all over the Dursleys’ _delicate sensibilities._

Harry slumped in his seat, ignoring the questioning look he got from Hermione, and tried to lose himself in the passing scenery. That was harder than it seemed because of the heated debate Tom and Hermione were having over how the Ministry handled muggle-borns. While Harry was happy that they were getting along, their debates made it a bit difficult to mope in peace. He winced as Hermione let out a particularly frustrated sigh.

“Look,” she said, “I agree with you that there needs to be some sort of monitoring system in place, but there also needs to be provision in place so that children aren’t separated from their parents just because said parents are muggles.”

Frowning, Harry watched Tom’s reflection shake his head, eyebrows quirked skeptically.

“And what about the apologists?” His mouth twisted as though he had tasted something sour. “Something must keep them in check; otherwise children will be left in abusive environments precisely _because_ their parents are muggles.”

“Why is the wizarding world so xenophobic?” With a heavy sigh, Hermione leaned back to stare dejectedly at the ceiling. Harry stopped pretending not to pay attention and turned from the window.

Tom blinked in surprise. “Pardon me?”

“Either muggles are the source of all evil, or they’re amusing creatures that can’t be trusted to work a spoon.”

“She’s got a point,” Harry said. “Even Mr. Weasley is sort of condescending about his obsession with muggle technology.” Hermione nodded in agreement. One of Tom’s eyebrows rose slowly, and he looked at them as those he had never seen them before. A thin smile found its way to Harry’s face. “To be honest, _you’re_ pretty condescending when it comes to muggles.” The other boy winced.

“Y-yes, well . . .” Tom trailed off, raising his fist to cover his mouth as he avoided eye contact. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Hermione struggling not to comment on the slytherin’s embarrassment. Suddenly, he cleared his throat and straightened up. “I won’t claim to be found of them by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m fully aware of how dangerous they can be.” The seriousness of his expression was ruined by the faint dusting of pink on his cheeks and at the tips of his ears.

“Huh.” Harry allowed himself to grin teasingly. “At least you’ll admit it.” Ron still had a problem with that, but they were working on it.

Sniffing irritably, Tom pointedly turned away from him, pulling Hermione into a discussion on some transfiguration theory she had mentioned in passing. Still grinning, he stretched then leaned back to resume watching the countryside pass by in a blur. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

 

* * *

 

Thin fingers were digging lightly into his shoulder and lightly shaking him when he woke up. Groggily, he shrugged them off as he rubbed at his eyes. Harry paused uncomprehendingly, and then groaned.

“Where are my glasses?” The second half of his question was distorted by a long yawn.

Someone moved, and they picked up something that scrapped against the small table under the compartments window. Harry held out his hand.

Jerking back when something touched his temples, his eyes snapped open just as the bridge of his glasses touched his nose. Tom was smiling above him, looking inordinately pleased about something while Hermione was leaning back in her seat, staring at them in bemusement. She noticed him staring back and gave him a very pointed look. It was then that Harry realized he had been using the other boy’s lap as a pillow.

Cheeks burning, he shot up, narrowly missing a collision with Tom’s chin, and swung his feet onto the floor. He glanced at Tom from the corner of his eye; in addition to being pleased the other boy now looked terribly amused.

Before he could die from embarrassment, Hermione came to his rescue. “We’re nearly at the station.”

“Right,” he said.

Harry pulled down his trunk and removed the travel bag he’d ordered after Tom had told him he was staying at the Dursleys’. It was filled with the clothes that fit both him and Tom, Harry’s wand, his photo album, and the few galleons he had leftover. Everything else was still in his trunk though Harry suspected that Tom had slipped a few of the smaller items they’d found into the bag as well. He passed it over.

Tom accepted the bag, amusement souring into distaste. This always seemed to happen whenever the Dursleys were alluded to; Harry wasn’t sure what it was that Tom had against them beyond him not liking muggles in general.

“Isn’t this a bit excessive?” It wasn’t said accusingly but Harry’s shoulder tensed and hunched anyway. He slammed the lid of trunk closed.

“Probably.” He shrugged, fiddling with the lock so he wouldn’t have to look at either of them. There wasn’t anything to get defensive about, Harry told himself firmly, the Dursleys wouldn’t dare act like they usually did with a guest in the house, wizard or otherwise.

The train slowed to a stop. Nerves were fluttering in the pit of his stomach again. Hermione pulled him into a hug, letting go with an uncertain smile.

“Call if you need anything, okay?” she said.

“Sure.”

Nodding, she turned to eye Tom with a strangely grim expression. They stood there for a bit, Hermione biting her lip and opening and closing her mouth like she wanted to say something, and Tom watching her fret passively. Finally, she sucked in breath, straightened up, and glared. Tom smiled.

Awkwardly, Harry cleared his throat. “We should get going,” he said.

They parted ways with Hermione on the other side of the barrier and continued on to the entrance. It went slower than Harry would have liked because Tom kept glancing curiously at various things, though he was much more subtle about it than Hagrid had been two years ago. He nearly stumbled over his feet when he realized this wasn’t the usual wizard being curious about how the muggles lived, but because Tom was curious about how things had changed over the last fifty years. He wondered if the wizarding world had changed much.

Uncle Vernon was waiting for them, Aunt Petunia and Dudley nowhere in sight. That wasn’t too surprising, though Harry had thought they would at least attempt to appear like they gave a damn. He took a deep, fortifying breath and lead Tom over.

Vernon spotted them almost immediately, his scowl deepening so severely that several people edged away from him. It just occurred to him that his uncle might still be angry about Ron and the Weasley twins rescuing him last summer. Of course, it could just be that he was mad that the Dursleys had to house two wizards, and not just Harry.

“Boy,” said Uncle Vernon, without so much as a glance in Tom’s direction, “hurry up, I don’t have all day.”

He spun sharply on his heel and marched away. The polite expression Tom had plastered on his face melted into incredulous disbelief; Harry winced. Wordlessly, they followed his uncle to the car. Uncle Vernon seemed determined to pretend that Tom wasn’t there. Each attempt Tom made to introduce himself was met with a strangled sneer and the slow reddening of Vernon’s face until it was the same color as an overripe tomato.

The car ride was awkward. Harry was determined to keep his mouth shut in hopes that that would lessen his uncle’s ire. But when they kept going straight instead of turning onto Tavistock, Harry felt his resolve begin to crumble. It was as they were turning onto the Strand off of Kingsway that Harry snapped.

“Uncle Vernon, where are we going?”

Tom turned from the window with a frown. For a moment, Harry was certain Uncle Vernon was going to start ranting, but he took one look at Tom out of the corner of his eye and grit his teeth instead. The stirring wheel creaked under his hands.

“No questions,” Uncle Vernon said as calmly as he could while his face reddened.

“But—”

“NO QUESTIONS!”

Harry stared at his uncle in numb disbelief as the car pulled up to the Leaky Cauldron. He got out of the car and watched as Uncle Vernon all but threw his trunk at his feet, got back into the car, and drove off. Tom curled his hand around Harry’s elbow and gently pulled him along. Static seemed to have plugged up his ears because he missed all of the exchange between Tom and the bartender. It was only once they were upstairs in their rented room that Harry was able to shake off some of the shock.

“He left us,” he said dully, “my uncle left us here, by ourselves, in London.”

“Harry—”

“I knew they hated wizards, but seriously. What the hell?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not, this is not the last we will see of the Dursleys. Tom will get his moment to shine. On that note, I'm a bit worried that I'm making Tom too passive. Any thoughts?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter only took 5,000 years and a day. I don't even know _why_. I knew what was going to happen and everything! But noooo.
> 
> Anyway, I apologize for the update taking so long, and hope you enjoy.

The next morning was awkward.

Apparently, the only room that had been available was a small dormer with a single bed, a rickety desk, and a cramped ensuite. Harry didn’t mind that so much, though it was a bit weird to share a bed with someone. Tom wasn’t a restless sleeper, thankfully, and didn’t snore at all. Once he got used to it, it had been easy to fall asleep.

No, what he had a problem with was waking up with the other boy curled into his side and the gang of snakes now sharing the bed with them. One of Tom’s hands was clutching the lapels of his pajamas, and coiled in the crook of his arm was a black snake Harry was certain was venomous. A constrictor was lying over their legs, pinning them in place. Another black snake, this one pencil-thin, was wound loosely around Tom’s neck. There were two more—scales a bright, leafy green—draped over the headboard, staring down at them. Harry stared back.

“How did they even get in here?” he wonder aloud, before remembering they’d left the window open for Hedwig.

 _“The Emperor’s magic called to us,”_ one of the green snakes answered. It raised its head, swaying side to side. _“So sweet, it is. Can you not hear it, false one?”_

“What are you—?”

“What time is it?” Tom mumbled into his neck. It came out in an odd jumble of English and Parseltongue, and at the sound of his voice the other snakes began waking up as well. The hand fisted in his shirt tensed then uncurled to lay flat against his chest as Tom lifted himself high enough to see over Harry’s head and out the window. He made a petulant noise at the sun cresting over the roofs of Diagon Alley, and slowly collapsed until his face was pressed into Harry’s shoulder.

The constrictor moved to coiled along Tom’s back, allowing Harry to untangle his legs from the other boy’s. It took a bit longer to convince Tom to move from his shoulder to the pillow and to move the venomous snake but finally, Harry was free to get out of bed. A quick shower later and Tom was no closer to getting up than he was before.

“I’m going to get breakfast,” he said, just to see if the other boy was even awake.

Tom turned his head just enough to squint at him. “I want tea and chocolate croissants.”

“Alright. Try to wake up before I get back.” Whatever response Tom had to that was muffled by the pillow.

Downstairs, the pub was nearly devoid of people. Only the bartender and a tiny, elderly witch were there. They looked up from where they were bent over a stack of strange cards to smile at him. He smiled back nervously and sat at the bar to wait for them to finish whatever it was they were doing. The witch flipped over a card and frowned.

“A bad investment, I should think,” she said.

“Huh. I thought for sure that . . . oh well.” The bartender sighed, shaking his head, and turned to Harry. “What can I help you with?”

“Breakfast: tea, chocolate croissants, and some fruit, please.”

“Right away!” He turned and entered the kitchen.

Harry waited awkwardly in silence as the elderly witch shuffled her cards and laid them out again. She gave a very pointed ‘hmm’ as she flipped over a card, but Harry pretended not to notice. Thankfully, the bartender returned soon after with his order piled neatly onto a tray. He reached into his money pouch to pay but was waved off.

“Breakfast comes free with the room.”

“Thanks.”

Grabbing the tray, Harry hurried back upstairs. He paused at the door, shifting around as he tried to figure out how to open it without dropping everything. Before he could come up with a solution, Tom opened the door, staring straight ahead with the blankness common among those still half-asleep. The pencil-thin snake was still hanging around his neck. His hair was damp.

Huffing, Harry nudged him aside. It was weird to see him like this. At Hogwarts, Tom had never seemed like some who had trouble waking up in the morning. But then, Tom had stayed in his old room so it wasn’t as though Harry had had the chance to see otherwise. They shuffled around each other as they fixed their plates. Tom took the desk’s chair, so Harry sat at the end of the bed. The other snakes had disappeared.

“If you’re that tired,” Harry said, in between bites, “why not go back to sleep?”

Tom blinked at him over the rim of his teacup, before downing the tea like it was a shot. He grimaced.

“We have things we need to get done before Dumbledore arrives to escort us to your relatives’ house.” He poured himself another cup of tea, but drank this one much more slowly. “Gringotts first, and then if we can, we’ll get some supplies.”

“Supplies?”

“Mainly potion ingredients and a catalog of old newspapers. There are a few other odds and ends that would be helpful, but they can wait.”

Harry nibbled on a piece of fruit. “What about a wand?”

“That will take too long,” said Tom. Frowning, he leaned back and propped his elbows on the armrests. “For now, information is more important.”

“If you say so.” He couldn’t imagine not wanting a wand as soon as possible. Even though they couldn’t use magic during the summer, just having his wand was a comfort to Harry. Why would the other boy give that up, he wondered with a frown. There were a lot of things Tom seemed all too willing to give up. Harry picked at the last bit of his croissant, shredding it into fine threads, as he turned that thought over in his mind.

Tom raised his cup to hide a secretive smile.

“We can leave your trunk with the innkeeper while we’re in Diagon Alley—”

He was cut off by sharp knocking at their door, which rapped out a merry tune. Frowning, Tom set aside his breakfast and stood, flexing his fingers with an odd gleam in his dark eyes. Harry hurried to follow but was waved back. The person on the other side of the door knocked again. Slowly, the younger boy wrapped a hand around the doorknob, his other hand held slightly behind him and fingers tensed as though they were claws. A violet light sparked in his hand.

There was a third knock. Tom cracked open the door just enough to see who was on the other side. His hand convulsed once then curled into a white-knuckled fist.

“Good morning!” The voice was unmistakable.

Tom stepped back, opening the door further. Professor Dumbledore beamed at them, hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing a reddish suit that looked rather Victorian. It was subdued and oddly muggle for something worn by the old wizard. With a loud huff, Tom stalked to the desk, snatched up his tea, and downed it.

Dumbledore stepped into the room, gently closing the door behind him. He gave the boys a searching look.

Harry jumped up, nearly knocking the remains of his breakfast to the floor, and began speaking, “Is there any way we can stay here for the summer? I know you said my relatives would take us in, but they’re the ones who left us here so . . .”

“There was talk about opening a hostel in Hogsmeade,” Tom said, tapping a finger against his chin. “If it’s open, we could stay there instead.” He smiled at Dumbledore’s pinched frown.

Harry felt a rush of gratefulness. It died a swift death when Dumbledore sighed heavily.

“I will speak with your aunt and uncle, Harry,” said the professor. “I’m certain this is all just a misunderstanding. I trust you are ready to leave?” He smiled, clapping his hands together.

“Yes, sir.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. He turned, knocking his shoulder against Tom as he reached around him to grab the handle of his trunk. With a sharp tug, he began dragging it after him—Harry spared a moment to be happy he’d let Tom cast the feather-light charm on it—following Dumbledore and Tom out of room and down into the pub. Tom handed the bartender their room key then they stepped out into muggle London.

“Professor,” Harry asked, “how are we getting to Privet Drive?”

“The Dey Bus, of course!”

Dumbledore raised his wand and, with a bang, a triple-decker bus popped into existence. Next to Harry, Tom tensed then let out a slow, wordless hiss.

“By Morgana, I hate this thing,” he mumbled.

The Dey Bus was a cheery, robin’s egg blue with a orange door that folded open to reveal a young woman dressed like an old-fashioned bellhop. She greeted them with a toothy smile, accepted their fare from Dumbledore, and waved them on board. The inside of the bus looked nothing like Harry expected it to. The seats were large, plush chairs in vibrant fabric and lacy curtains covered the windows—it was like a cleaner, uncluttered version of Mrs. Figg’s front room.

“I think you’ll enjoy this, Harry,” Dumbledore said, beaming at him from a canary yellow chair.

Tom wrapped a hand tightly around his wrist and dragged him to a loveseat. He considered protesting but one look at the other boy’s face convinced him otherwise. With his face ashen and pinched, Tom looked as though he’d rather walk all the way to the Dursleys’.

Not a second after they’d sat down the bus lurched into motion, throwing them further into their seats and making Harry’s trunk knock painfully into their shins. With each sharp twist in direction, Tom’s hold on his wrist tightened and his hissed mantra of _“hate this, hate this, hate this”_ was interrupted by a sharp gasp. Harry, on the other hand, felt that the ride was what he’d imagined a rollercoaster to be like, and hoped they’d be able to take the Dey Bus again soon.

One last sudden lurch and they arrived at Privet Drive. Harry and Dumbledore shared a grin while Tom let out a slow, measured breath, peeling his fingers from Harry’s wrist. They exited the bus. Tom was still breathing carefully. As soon as they were out of the way, the Dey Bus shot off again.

“You don’t like flying either, do you?” Harry asked teasingly.

Tom made a face, wrinkling his nose and twisting his mouth into something between a grimace and a pout.

“Flying,” he grounded out, “is a _completely different_ matter. I’m in control, for one.” One last measured breath and Tom relaxed. “But no, I’m not fond of it. Snakes aren’t made to fly, after all.”

“Isn’t there an Aztecan snake that flies? The—Rainbow Serpent, I think it’s called?”

“The Feathered Serpent, Quetzalcoatl,” Tom corrected. “He’s one of their deities. Though . . .” he paused, “there _is_ a winged serpent that’s named after him. They do have multi-colored feathers. According to rumors, there’s a sect of priests devoted to him that’s learned to change their Animagus forms from their natural state and into that of Quetzalcoatl’s namesake.”

“That’s rare?”

Tom shrugged. “No one else has managed it.”

“That reminds me,” Dumbledore cut in, “of your second year, Tom, when young Antonin Dolohov covered you in rainbow paper feathers. Ah, youth.”

Smiling, Harry turned toward Tom to tease him. He froze, mirth fading in the face of Tom’s flushed anger. A flicker of red danced in the boy’s irises.

“Feathers made from _my books!_ Oh, I remember.”

Harry swallowed. The slytherin had mentioned his housemates treating him like an outcast before, but it hadn’t sunk in. And he hadn’t said anything about being _bullied._ Would Malfoy and his lot treat Tom the same way? Dudley had never wasted an opportunity to beat on Harry, and Malfoy was cut from the same cloth. Once they were back at Hogwarts, he’d have to remember to keep an eye out.

Ahead of them, Dumbledore sighed. “My apologies, I hadn’t realized.”

 _“Like hell you didn’t,”_ Tom hissed lowly.

It was fortunate that Dumbledore was now knocking on the Dursleys’ front door, sparing Harry from the awkward silence that was sure to follow that conversation. A quick glance at the driveway revealed that Uncle Vernon’s car was gone. Would anyone even be home? It was Sunday, after all, and the first weekend since Dudley returned from school. The Dursleys might have gone on a holiday for the week. Harry hoped so. Anything to put off the inevitable.

Unfortunately, Aunt Petunia answered the door. She was smiling when the door opened but as soon as she realized who it was, her smile morphed into a dark scowl.

“Petunia, my dear,” said Dumbledore, beaming, “might we come in?”

Aunt Petunia looked like she was seriously considering slamming the door in his face. She glanced past them, and seemed to realize any of their neighbors could look out their windows at any minute and see the odd group on her doorstep. Jaw clenched, she waved them inside.

The house hadn’t changed a single bit since last summer. Even the exact arrangement of doilies and photos on the mantle was the same. Being allowed to sit in the living room was strange, Harry decided. He was used to the room being off limits to him except for cleaning. The loveseat Aunt Petunia ‘saved’ for guests wasn’t nearly as comfortable as it looked.

Tom sat next to him, expression eerily blank as he stared at the photographs lining the room. Harry knew what he would find—or rather, what he wouldn’t. There wasn’t a single picture of Harry in the house. The only time Harry had had his photo taken as a child was when his school had picture days, and the Dursleys never bought copies. Why would they, when they spent all of Harry’s time with them making it clear just how much they hated him?

Professor Dumbledore and Aunt Petunia were having a silent face-off, which she looked to be losing. Finally, she cracked.

“Now see here,” she began, cheeks flushing red. “I thought we made ourselves clear, leaving _them_ ,” she jerked her head at Harry and Tom, “at that _place_ to be looked after by _your kind_ —”

Folding his hands together, Dumbledore leaned forward. “Do you remember the letter I sent you in ’83, Petunia?” he asked, mildly.

She swallowed and nodded stiffly. Harry thought she looked afraid though she was trying not to show it.

“Then you remember that the safety of Harry, you, and your family depends on Harry being welcomed in your home.”

“I—I don’t care!” Aunt Petunia snapped. “My family wouldn’t even be considered targets if you hadn’t forced the boy on us. For years, we’ve had to put up with the boy and his nonsense. And now you want us to deal with another one? We don’t have room for _fre_ —for your kind in this house!”

Harry tensed at her near slip up, curling his shoulders forward as he subtly tried to make himself as small as possible. It had taken months to make Ron, and later Hermione, drop what he’d seen when he and the twins rescued Harry last summer. He doubted there was anything he could say to make Tom let it go if the other boy realized just how bad things were.

Unfortunately, his attempts to shrink into himself didn’t go unnoticed by Tom. The other boy frowned, gaze flicking between Harry and Aunt Petunia. Something dark passed over his face, turning his features into something straight out of one of Seamus’s ghost stories. Right then, Tom looked like a Sidhe who’d been offended by some arrogant, unsuspecting human. The shadow disappeared and a chilly, demure smile took its place.

“I suggest, Mrs. Dursley,” Tom said, polite and eerily serene, “that you stop while you still can.”

 

* * *

 

So this was Dumbledore’s angle . . . and here Tom had thought the old man was losing his edge. Play on Tom’s Vow and his life debt to make him sympathetic to Potter, and use their similarities to entice his possessiveness. And once he was wrapped around Potter’s finger, use the gryffindor to control his actions. One of Dumbledore’s famed ‘second chances.’ Nice, clean, and deceptively simple.

Although, clearly a few screws had gotten loose if he thought this was going to work. Especially when it was so obvious Potter desperately wanted to be accepted and needed for who he was, and not for being the Boy-Who-Lived. Tom had no problems giving him just that—so long as he got everything Potter had on offer in return.

By the time he was done, there wouldn’t be a single foothold in Potter for Dumbledore to stand on.

The muggle bitch drew herself up, glaring down her nose at him as though she was worth something. He held back the urge to sneer. It was far, _far_ too soon to teach the bitch proper manners.

“Are you trying to threaten me, boy?”

“Oh, of course not. But surely, even one like yourself should realize there are lines you shouldn’t cross.” He tilted his head, widening his eyes in faux surprise. “And in front of a professor, no less!” Not that Dumbledore would lift a finger to help, not even for his precious Boy-Who-Lived. “Actions might have to be taken . . . and you wouldn’t like that, would you?”

He slouched against the loveseat’s armrest, project as much haughty disdain as he dared this early in the game, and let his smile drop.

“Now, let’s try this again, shall we?”

The muggle gawped, face slowly turning red in the beginnings of a tantrum. Clearly, she was unused to dealing with her betters. Of course, this was a muggle who thought bullying a dragon wouldn’t get her burnt, so perhaps she was just unusually stupid. Time would tell, he supposed.

Dumbledore coughed and gave him a disappointed look, as if Tom cared what the old man thought. Potter was looking at him as if he’d done something impossible. He spared the boy a tiny smile. Such low standards, it was nearly annoying.

“Actions?” the bitch managed to ask.

“Heirs are vitally important to _our kind_.” Tom forced his sneer to curl into a smile. “I can’t imagine how people would react if they heard the Potter heir was turned away by family.” It would be a bloodbath—metaphorically, of course. Because the universe didn’t like giving Tom nice things. Perhaps later, if he asked sweetly enough, Potter would help him make it a literal bloodbath. It was something to think about, anyway.

For now, all he had to do was sit back and watch as Dumbledore laid the foundations for Tom’s victory.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Look! Its only been two months, aren't you proud? That brings the average down to six months a chapter, right? That's progress, right? Right?

Dumbledore, after much needling and vague threats, convinced the muggle bitch to open her home to the underage wizards.

Tom was convinced the old man knew just how bad an idea this was but pushed forward anyway out of arrogant certainty that his pawns would behave as he wanted them to. When it came to his gryffindors, Dumbledore was ridiculously blind. Some twisted sense of house loyalty, he supposed. Tom spared a moment to be grateful he never bought in to that nonsense. As far as he was concerned, everyone was useless until proven otherwise.

After wishing them a good summer, and reminding them they couldn’t use magic, Dumbledore left. He didn’t even bother to pull Tom aside to make subtle accusations and threats as he normally would have. He really was banking on Potter. _Potter_ , who couldn’t manipulate his way out of a paper bag. How insulting.

From across the room, the muggle eyed them uneasily. Just because he could, Tom smiled at her. It wasn’t a nice smile. Alphard Black had once described it as ‘the smile a serial killer gives you once they’ve decided where they’re going to dump your body.’ Out of Tom’s old housemates, Alphard always had the best compliments.

She blanched.

“B-boy! Take your things to your room.”

Potter blinked. “All of it . . . ?”

“Yes!” she snapped, carefully not looking at Tom.

The boy jumped to his feet to obey, grabbing his trunk and dragging it along. Faking a yawn, he followed the gryffindor slowly. The muggle’s face twitched, and she curled her hands into white-knuckled fists. With the Vow in place he would need to be careful, but fanning the flames of the animosity between Potter and the muggles would prove useful in turning the boy from Dumbledore’s camp. After all, it certainly wasn’t Tom who forced him back here.

Hesitating in the room’s doorway, Potter glanced at him. “Uh, where’s Tom staying?”

“With you. Marge will be visiting this summer.”

The look of horror on Potter’s face added another victim to the tally. Three already and it hadn’t even been a week yet!

“Now go.” The bitch huffed, crossing her arms. “And remember you’re making dinner tonight.”

Potter led him upstairs. He hesitated in front of his room, hand curled around the doorknob. Biting his lip, he turned to Tom.

“It’s . . . kind of a mess, so . . .” He looked ill with nerves. An odd thing to be worried about, given there was at least one slob in every dorm—for such a peacock, Abraxas Malfoy had _disgusting_ habits.

“That’s fine,” Tom said. Nothing could be worse than Malfoy.

It wasn’t fine.

The room looked more like a depository for junk than a bedroom, boxes and broken things dominating the room. The sliver of useable space that remained was an unpleasant reminder of Tom’s own summer lodgings. Barely larger than his old room at the orphanage and with furniture to match. Bile crept up his throat.

Why was Potter’s room like this when the house had five bedrooms and only three permanent residents?

He asked.

“Huh?” Confused, Potter blinked then nodded once as realization kicked in. “ _Oh_! My cousin—he’s our age—he lives here too. To be honest, all of this junk,” he waved at the boxes, “is his.”

Tom had to bite his tongue to keep control of his expression. He took a slow breath. “And your . . . furniture?”

“I think they came with the house?” Potter shrugged. “Or my uncle got them for free.” He dragged his trunk over to the bed and wedged it in the tiny space between it and the wardrobe. “I don’t really know.”

The Dursleys lived in an upper-middle class neighborhood. The rest of the house was in mint condition—obsessively clean, and doubtless new and expensive. Meanwhile, Potter’s room looked like an East End orphanage. So that makes willful neglect and verbal abuse if the muggle’s near slip-up was any indication.

His mouth twisted into the beginnings of a sneer.

Hated wizards indeed! He would give them something to hate. Tom would need to be subtle with these ones, Potter wasn’t ready for Tom’s usual methods of handling muggles. It would be a long, _slow_ descent into their own personal hell.

“I wonder if they still have that camp bed?” mused Potter quietly. He started shifting boxes around. “Hopefully they do. I’d give you my bed, but honestly, the camper is gonna be way more comfortable.”

Tom hummed. “You don’t need to find it, I can fix this.”

“Yeah?” The look Potter threw over his shoulder was full of incredulous doubt. “And how do you plan to do that?”

“Magic, of course.”

Potter stopped digging through his current box. He sighed heavily and turned.

“We’re not allowed to do magic, Tom.” The stern look Potter gave him carried a surprising amount of weight. There was potential in that look. A stern, no nonsense ‘war hero’ trying to save magic . . . yes, that could work. He would need a plan for how to nurture that image. Something to think about later. For now, he had magic to weave.

“We aren’t allowed to use _standard_ magic,” he smirked, amused by the gryffindor’s confused frown, “which I’m not going to do. I’m going to use wandless magic.”

The boy gaped. Really now, if Tom could pull off what he’d done to his diary, wandless magic was nothing.

“Won’t they pick that up?” Potter asked. “They knew Dobby used a hover charm last year.” He stood and edged closer, watching as Tom inspected the bed’s frame. Shame it was wood and not metal, he wouldn’t be able to widen it much. Wood didn’t like to be pulled into new shapes. Ah, well, they were still small enough that they could share a bed.

“Dobby?”

“A house-elf.”

Yes, very informative there, Potter. Tom rolled his eyes. Why had there been a house-elf here in the first place? He really needed to make the boy give him a proper rundown of the past two years.

“He must have tripped the Trace on purpose. House-elf magic isn’t monitored the way underage magic is—it’s expected that the elf’s family will keep them in line.” He prodded the mattress. “Might have to find the camp bed anyway, just to have more material to work with . . .” Merlin, prison beds were in better shape than this.

“How can you even use wandless magic? Isn’t it supposed to be really difficult?”

“Near impossible to hear purebloods tell it.” He spared Potter a mischievous smile which was shyly returned. “But I was a very stubborn child . . . and when I realized all the strange things that happened were my doing, I learned to control it. At Hogwarts, I kept practicing the skill because I wanted to make my housemates eat their words.”

Their fear had been amusing, too. Apparently, discovering that the mudblood orphan you had spent the past four years bullying used wandless fiendfyre to light candles was a terrifying thing. Who knew?

His smile sharpened.

Tom was going to have _so much fun_ bringing the current generation of slytherins to heel. If they ended up inheriting the debts of their grandparents . . . well, Tom never made any claims about being fair.

* * *

Making dinner was interesting.

Tom kept up a running commentary on Harry’s cooking skills while he leafed through the glossy cookbooks Aunt Petunia kept as props. Occasionally he’d make an interested noise when he found something he liked—usually a complicated dessert or pastry. It was kind of cute.

The growing fury on his aunt’s face whenever she checked on them was not. Neither was the dark, considering look Tom would level at her back when she left.

“It’s not that bad,” Harry muttered over a pile of carrots after one ‘check-up.’

The bland look Tom gave him said everything.

“Not that bad?” Closing the cookbook in front of him, Tom sighed. He faced Harry, leaning his hip against the counter. “Your room would fit right in at Wool’s. The problem with this is: Wool’s is an underfunded _orphanage_.”

Harry looked away. Something painful churned in his gut. It wasn’t like Harry wanted to be here, slaving under his relatives’ whims. If he could, he’d stay with Ron or Hermione, or at the Leaky Cauldron, but Dumbledore insisted he stayed here. There wasn’t a choice but to accept it, and try to deal.

Sighing again, Tom leaned close, pressing a cheek to the back of Harry’s shoulder. Softly, gently, he went on.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it. I understand that, _I do_. But Harry—”

“It’s just for the summer.”

His hands were shaking. Slowly, Harry put down the knife. Tom ran a soothing hand down his back.

“Harry—”

“ _No_.” he snapped.

Grease popped, sudden and loud. Harry took a slow, deep breath and held it in his lungs. Down the hall, the front door opened. He exhaled. Dudley and Uncle Vernon were home.

And if the muffled, angry voice was any indication, his uncle had just learned about his unwanted guests. This was going to go over great! Harry grimaced.

Sure enough, heavy footsteps stormed down the hall. Tom pulled away just before the kitchen door slammed open, revealing Harry’s red-faced uncle. Glaring, he took a threatening step forward before he stopped, only now remembering that it wasn’t just Harry in the room. Vernon eyed Tom.

“Boy—” he began before freezing.

“Hello sir,” Tom said pleasantly, “my name is Tom Riddle. Thank you for letting me stay in your home on such short notice.” He didn’t hold out a hand.

Harry couldn’t see the other boy’s expression but he didn’t think it was a friendly one. Not when Vernon looked as he had when Hagrid had tried to turn Dudley into a pig two years ago. This was going to be a problem.

“Hi Uncle. School was great.” He tugged on the back of the other boy’s shirt. “Tom, help me with the potatoes.”

Snapping out of his stupor, Vernon growled. “Any funny business . . .” He didn’t seem willing to finish the threat with a guest in the house. Luckily for him, Harry knew the routine.

“Right. Awesome talk.” He tried to smile.

With one final glare, Uncle Vernon left.

The look Tom gave him was unimpressed.

“‘Awesome talk.’ Really?”

* * *

Things came to a head sooner than Tom planned.

Potter’s disgustingly overgrown cousin had a _delightful_ game called ‘Harry Hunting’ and no self-preservation instincts to speak of. No, that wasn’t true. The filthy cur had just enough instincts to wait until Tom wasn’t around before beginning a ‘game.’

Tom had gone to the library to research the muggles’ advancements over the past fifty years—the implications of the internet were terrifying. He hadn’t been gone long, maybe two hours, before heading back to Harry’s summer home. A puzzling occurrence, when his previous trips lasted about five hours. But there was a itching in the back of his mind that demanded he leave.

Potter met him at the garden gate and the puzzle answered itself. A large bruise, the exact shape of a meaty fist, sat high on Potter’s cheek. The eye above it was squinted. Miraculously, his glasses were still intact.

For a second, Tom’s brain failed him. It didn’t last long.

The sheer force of the Vow activating left Tom reeling, breathless, as it demanded action. He clawed at his Occlumency shields, building them as high as he could until the Vow was a distant itch again. He’d miscalculated, _severely_.

Tom’s status as a Horcrux should have kept the Vow from fully taking root. It should have given him all the room he needed to play the board as the chess master and not as a piece. Instead— _fuck, the **life debt** , how had Tom forgotten_—he’d chained himself to the board as a knight. All of the time and effort Tom had spent clawing his way to the top, remaking himself into a dark lord, and gathering power. All of it ruined _because of this stupid **piece of shit and its bitch mother**_ —

“I’m going to kill him.” He wasn’t sure if he meant Potter or his cousin.

Potter dropped his hand from his cheek, still swollen and red from his cousin’s loving attention, and gaped at him.

“What?! You can’t—this isn’t . . .” He sucked in a deep breath, wincing at the pull on his cheek. “Dudley’s an idiot, yeah, but you’re over-reacting.”

Tom smiled. Ah, he’s angry enough that he’s smiling. That’s never a good sign for anyone. He fiddled with the jar in his hand. A balm for bruises—when had he gotten this out? Tom couldn’t recall. Another bad omen.

“And if this gets worse?” he mused.

Potter shook his head, turning away to resume pacing. Sighing, Tom crossed his legs, mattress creaking under him, and leaned back. Martyrs could be _so_ annoying.

“You know it will. It’s only been four days any they’re already overstepping their boundaries.”

He watched the boy pause, hesitating.

“I can see your dreams, you know, because of the Vow,” Tom continued softly when Potter stubbornly refused to speak. He crawled to the edge of the bed, balanced on his knees, and wound his arms loosely around Potter’s neck. Pressing his cheek to the back of the boy’s neck, Tom sighed. “The cupboard, the lack of food, the continuous punishments for things beyond your control, Ripper, _the frying pan._ ”

The boy tensed, shaking.

“If it means that much to you, my dear _king_ ,” he relished the shamed flinch that won, “I won’t do much to them. But this can’t go on. The Vow— _I_ won’t let it go on.” He lifted his head to hover near Potter’s bruised cheek, close enough that he could almost taste the minty smell of the healing ointment. “It is, after all, my duty and pleasure to put your enemies in their place.

"And they _are_ your enemies if they’re willing to do this, Harry.” He turned so his lips brushed Potter’s ear, ignoring the shiver that ran through the other boy. “If they’re willing to let it happen.”

Potter’s jaw trembled.

“That doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want,” he said, swallowing roughly. Tom hummed. “ _It doesn’t!_ ”

* * *

A dark, heavy tension settled over number four, Privet Drive. The Dursleys, for reasons they couldn’t quite name, avoided the two wizards like the plague. Sleep was a distant memory. Their dreams were haunted by writhing snakes, gleaming fangs, the steady drip of acid into their eyes, and a whisper.

“You mustn’t tell Harry. This is our secret. You know you deserve this.”

The lack of sleep took its toll.

Petunia and Vernon started arguing. The first ones are over his sister. How could they have Marge over with another _freak_ in the house, she would ask. They shouldn’t let the freaks rule their lives, he would yell. The same argument, again and again. They yelled and screamed. Occasionally, a fist would fly.

“You know you deserve this.”

Unnoticed by all, Dudley slowly stopped eating. He wandered the neighborhood, listless. Sometimes, he found himself in public toilet vomiting half-digested food and stomach acid. Sometimes it was blood. His skin felt like it was pulling loose, sliding off of him.

“You know you deserve this.”

They had done everything Dumbledore had told them to, except for the most important thing. And now they were going to pay for it. All the protective magic in the world can’t save you from something you invited in yourself, after all.

* * *

Two weeks before Harry’s thirteenth birthday, the phone rang. Not an unusual thing, when distant relatives and telemarketers had no other way of reaching the Dursleys. No, the strange thing was who it was for.

That morning, Uncle Vernon answered the phone.

“Hello?” sleepily he asked, nursing his coffee. He went to take a sip.

“EXCUSE ME,” shouted a familiar voice. It was Mrs. Weasley.

The sudden scream into his ear caused the man to jump, spilling scalding liquid down his front. He sputtered and slammed his cup onto the table. Horror settled in Harry’s stomach.

“IS THIS THE DURSLEY RESIDENCE?”

Please stop yelling, he wanted to tell her but he couldn’t find his voice.

“MAY I SPEAK TO HARRY POTTER?”

Uncle Vernon had had enough. He shot out of the chair, swelling up like an angry red balloon.

“THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE!” he bellowed into the phone before violently hanging up. “BOY!” Before Harry could react, his uncle threw himself around the table to grab his arm in a crushing grip. He wrenched up sharply. Harry gasped in pain.

There was a loud wet crunch.

With a bawling howl, Vernon let go to cradle his wrist. A blackish bruise was spreading across the limb and it was swelling rapidly. Petunia let out a horrified gasp. Dudley froze, staring at . . .

“Harry,” Tom said gently, “go get our things.”

Dudley was staring at Tom with a level of fear Harry had never seen before. Slowly, Harry turned.

His eyes were red. That was the first thing he noticed. Tom’s eyes were red, without a single trace of the grey-violet they usually were. He was watching Vernon with a clinical disinterest that didn’t match the heavy pressure building around him. He realized that Harry was still standing there and smiled at him. Dudley whimpered. Red stared into green.

“Harry,” Tom said again.

A fog descended over his thoughts. He could still hear his relatives but it was white noise, distant. They didn’t matter. Tom would take care of it.

They were leaving, weren’t they? Had they packed? Harry should go check. No point in leaving things behind when they weren’t coming back.

He left the kitchen and went up stairs. Behind him, someone screamed.

It didn’t matter.

Tom would take care of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Snape's unbreakable vow and life debt means he can leave Harry in an abusive household, Tom can totally mindcontrol Harry to get him _out_ of one.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate Gringotts scenes. Why do people feel the need to make Harry the heir to so many different families? Why? I don't understand.
> 
> Anyway! Please enjoy.

With the Dursleys gone on their impromptu holiday to the sea, Harry and Tom returned to the Leaky Cauldron. For whatever reason, the bartender didn’t recognize them despite it only being a week.

Small miracles, Harry decided.

Or maybe it had something to do with Tom stealing his glasses and _somehow_ making his hair behave. They ended up renting the same tiny room from their first visit. It was the cheapest the owner had, but the room’s down payment plus their fair for the Dey Bus wiped out the last bit of Harry’s money. Harry needed to go to Gringotts or they would starve.

Diagon Alley had a different feel without the rush of school shoppers, charming in the way small towns were. The few shoppers out and about took their time meandering from shop to shop, pausing to chat idly with each other on the way. Watching them, it was hard to believe they were in the middle of London, surrounded by skyscrapers, smog, and loud cars.

The bank was just as Harry remembered it, gleaming white and looming over the buildings around it. Inside, the usual crowds were absent. No one wanted to deal with surly goblins on a Sunday morning if they didn’t have to. The goblins didn’t seem to care one way or another.

Harry moved toward a front teller. The lines here were longest, ten deep in the shortest line. He settled in to wait.

A hand wrapped around his wrist. Tom tugged him out of the line and towards the back of the bank.

“There’s something I want to check,” he explained.

Neatly hidden behind a series of columns was a row of desks. Separated by thick wooden partitions, the five desks dominated the area, each big enough to sit three goblins behind it. Next to them was a single black iron door twice as large as it had any right to be. It had suspicious reddish stains.

There weren’t any lines here, but they still had to wait because the sole clerk dillydallied over the papers in front of her. She ignored them as best she could with Tom staring her down with a pleasant smile that somehow _wasn’t_.

Harry was beginning to realize that Tom smiling wasn’t always a good thing. There were other slytherins like that—his year-mate Daphne Greengrass and ex-seeker Terence Higgs—who could smile as if everything was perfect even as the world burned around them. He didn’t understand it. Why smile if you weren’t happy?

But the gryffindor had to admit it was effective. When the goblin finally looked up, she twitched violently when she saw the expression on the slytherin’s face.

“How may I help you?” This was the first time he’d heard a goblin attempt to be polite.

Tom’s smiled faded into a neutral echo of itself that rang just as false.

“We’d like to meet with the account manager for the Potter estate.” He sounded almost bored.

Harry and the goblin frowned at him.

Why did they need to do that? Harry’s vault was still full of money, and the bank hadn’t sent any mail to him asking to see him. That meant everything was fine, right? Maybe Tom was worried Harry wouldn’t have enough to look after them. It wasn’t like he ever talked about what his parents had left him, and most kids _didn’t_ have money of their own.

Sneering, the goblin leaned over her desk to glare down at them.

“And what _right_ do _you_ have to request this?” Lips pulled back, revealing sharp teeth, she looked Tom up and down with contempt. Her hand hovered over a bell-like contraption. Harry didn’t think anything good would happen if she rang it.

That faux pleasant smile was back on Tom’s face.

Before he could say anything, Harry wrenched his vault key out of his pocket and dropped it on the desk. He shoved his fringe up, displaying his scar.

“I’m Harry Potter,” he announced. Hopefully, that would be enough.

Tom sighed loudly.

With narrowed eyes, the goblin scrutinized him. She examined Harry’s key, holding it up to the light, turning it this way and that. She stared at him some more. Sometimes, the goblin would eye Tom as if he was going to peel back his face to reveal someone else. Finally, with great reluctance, she nodded.

“Very well,” she said, “but one final test.” Opening a drawer, the goblin removed a flat piece of parchment roughly the size of credit card and a strange black quill with a wicked looking nip. She slid the items over to Harry. “Fill in the square at the top right-hand corner.” There wasn’t any ink.

With furrowed brows, Harry did as she said.

He pressed the quill’s metallic tip to parchment and immediately pulled back with a pained hiss. A blotch of red stained the paper. On the back of his hand was a matching red dot, beading as blood escaped the breach in his skin. An uncomfortable itch formed as it healed over.

“Is there a problem?”

They were staring at him, the goblin full of judgment and Tom with curious concern. There’s something challenging, expectant in their gazes. Swallowing, Harry steeled himself against the knife-point pain and finished filling in the square. Emerald green writing bloomed on the parchment, filling in the blank spaces with Harry’s information. The back of his hand burned and itched as skin was cut away then healed. Blood welled.

A pale finger swept across his hand, collecting the blood. Tom examined his bloody fingertip briefly before licking it clean. Harry gaped, his jaw hanging open. The other boy blinked at him.

“What? It’s dangerous to leave blood lying around.”

Across from them, the goblin coughed pointedly.

“Everything is in order.” She stood. “This way, please.” After collecting Harry’s vault key and the parchment, she headed toward the iron door.

Harry scrambled to follow, Tom a step behind him. The iron door led to a long corridor lined with other doors, each a different size and made from a different material—oak and mahogany, pewter and gold. The hallway seemed to go on and on, stretching further than it had any right to. The group stopped in front of a redwood door carved with reliefs of weapons.

The goblin dragged a knobby finger down the door’s left side. Where these doors like the vault the philosopher’s stone had been kept in? Sure enough, tiny clicks of hidden locks releasing could be heard, one after another, in a rapid chink-chink-chink. The door shivered then opened soundlessly.

Reluctantly, the goblin bowed.

“If you’ll wait here, your account manager will meet with you shortly.”

She turned sharply, and left them standing in the corridor. With a deep breath—why was he nervous?—Harry entered the office.

Somehow, it was surprising how normal the room looked. A large but plain desk, wooden filing cabinets, shelves cluttered with books and knick-knacks, and three chairs he hoped had cushioning charms on them. The only thing ruining the normality of the office was the large war axe and great shield proudly on display behind the desk. Behind him, Tom shut the door.

Frowning, Harry turned to Tom.

“ _So_.” An acidic feeling churned in the gryffindor’s gut. He swallowed roughly against it. “Want to explain what this is about? If you’re worried about money, you could’ve just asked.” His hands were shaking, so he curled them into fists.

The other boy blinked at him, head tilted just so and violet eyes wide.

The acid boiled.

“Tom,” he managed through clenched teeth. _Why_ was he getting _so angry_?

Slowly, Tom sat down. His eyes gleamed with something Harry couldn’t identify.

“Some comments Ginny had made were . . . concerning.” He paused. Lip caught between teeth, he looked away. “If they’re true, that’s . . .” Faltering, Tom sighed. He picked at his nails.

Harry tried to push down the ire that choked him. Why did people never tell him anything? Especially when he had every right to know?

“And _when_ were you planning on telling me these _concerns_?”

Warily, Tom lifted his gaze to match Harry’s.

“I—”

The door slammed open. They both ignored it.

“There wasn’t any point in bringing it up,” Tom said slowly. “Without proof, you would have dismissed whatever I said out of hand.” With another heavy sigh, he turned away, staring tiredly at an unseen point. “They’re your friends, after all, and I . . . I’m not.”

“What?” His ire died a sudden, cold death. “That’s not true!”

“Really?” Something mocking soured Tom’s expression. “Compared to how you are with Granger or Weasley, it’s obvious you don’t trust me. I’m just another slytherin to you.” He closed his eyes. _“That’s how it always is.”_

Not something Harry was meant to hear.

Like a ribbon of rancid ooze, guilt seeped into him coating his insides with rot. _Had_ he been treating Tom like that? Harry didn’t think so, but . . . If _Hermione_ had told him to see his account manager, he would’ve considered it sound advice and done so without asking why. If _Ron_ had taken charge like Tom had, Harry would’ve been happy someone who knew the wizarding world well was helping him. Because they were _his friends_ and he _trusted_ —

“I’m sorry,” he said, collapsing into a chair.

Over by the desk, someone loudly cleared their throat.

“If you’re finished with your squabble,” said this new goblin, voice full of judgment, “we will get down to business.” She drummed sharp, red lacquered nails on a stack of files.

Harry straightened in his chair, a new batch of nerves rioting through him.

“I am Redax, the current steward of the Potter estate.” She flipped open the topmost file and picked up a sheet of parchment. “Harry James Potter, son of James Francis Potter and Lily Jeanette Potter née Evans, born 31 July 1980 at 24:59 in Godric’s Hollow under the care of Medwitch Andromeda Tonks. Legal guardians not listed. Cur—”

“I live with my aunt and uncle,” Harry interrupted.

“Current residence not listed.” Redax lowered her parchment to give him a stern glare. “Your aunt, you say. That would be a Mrs.—” she selected another parchment, “—Petunia Anne Dursley née Evans? Formally renounced by Lily Potter on 28 September 1979, and blacklisted by James Potter on 10 August 1980. That aunt?”

“Uh, yes?”

Tom hummed thoughtfully.

“Renounced _and_ blacklisted,” he said, “. . . wonder what happened.”

“Our records do not contain that information. On the other hand,” she changed parchments again, “it is unlawful for you to remain in that household. Of the properties available to you, I would suggest the townhouse on Grimmauld Place. It has been vacant for the shortest amount of time and still has a house-elf attached to it. The warding is extensive and we of Gringotts would be pleased to add more. For a fee, of course.”

With a nasty smile, Redax passed over the parchment. Feeling lost, Harry took it and stared blankly at it. They were moving too quickly, jumping over canyons of information Harry didn’t have and didn’t know how to ask for.

Next to him, Tom leaned forward.

“How does Harry have access to the Black properties?” he wanted to know. “I didn’t think they liked the Potters enough for that.”

“Sirius Orion Black named Harry Potter his heir on 1 August 1980,” explained the goblin. “Shortly after that, the Potters signed for joint custody with him and allowed him to perform a partial blood adoption ritual.”

“What does that means?” Harry asked.

“For all intents and purposes, Sirius Black is your third parent.”

“So why didn’t he raise me?”

Here, Redax hesitated. She reordered the parchments before her and nudged a quill back into alignment. Something heavy and oily built in the back of his throat the longer she put off answering his question.

“In November 1981, Sirius Black was sentenced to Azkaban.” She paused then sighed deeply. “Reports state that he betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord, and led him to their safe house on the night of their murders. He—”

The parchment Harry was holding dropped from numb fingers.

She continued speaking, sharp teeth flashing as her mouth moved, but Harry couldn’t hear her. Loud static filled his head. His jaw ached from how hard he was grinding his teeth. This person his parents—this _bastard_ his parents had trusted had betrayed them. _Why?_ His nail dug gouges into his palms. How could he? _How dare he!_ Harry would—Harry would . . . Distantly, he heard something rattle.

Tom knelt before him. Slowly, carefully, he held Harry’s face in his hands, smoothing back a curl of hair that hung over his scar. Concern was etched across his face.

“I’m going to kill him,” Harry said dully.

Tom licked his lips then swallowed.

“I’m going to _kill him_.” Unnoticed, he slipped into parseltongue. A fierce dark thing rose in him. His eyes were wild. _“I’m going **to take everything** from him.”_

 _“If that’s what you want,”_ Tom whispered in agreement, eyes glittering.

A tiny part of him broke.

With a wounded noise, he fell forward to bury his face against Tom’s shoulder. His glasses dug uncomfortably into his skin but he refused to move. Thin fingers carded through his hair. A burning itch formed behind his eyes.

_“Hate him.”_

Tom hummed.

They stayed that way for a while, Harry trying to regain his equilibrium as Tom petted his hair.

Harry decided he hated Black more than Voldemort. Voldemort had never been their friend, had never been close enough to betray them. He’d never promised to look after Harry if something happened. Black had. Harry meant what he’d said. Sirius Black would pay for what he’d done to his parents.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. The fingers in his hair paused then continued their movements.

Did wanting revenge make him a bad person? Never once had Harry considered getting even with the Dursleys. Even with Malfoy, he hadn’t followed through. ‘If they’re willing to do this, they’re your enemies’ Tom had said. Black’s actions made him an enemy. Did . . . did that make it okay?

He pulled away. Even though he hadn’t cried, his eyes felt gummy and tender like he hadn’t slept in ages. Tom let his hand drop to Harry’s shoulder.

“We can finished this another day, Harry.”

“No.” He pushed his glasses up to scrub at his eyes. “No, let’s just get this over with.” Peel it off in one go, like a band aid.

Biting his lip, Tom nodded. He stood to go back to his chair but Harry grabbed onto him, curling his fingers in Tom’s shirt. Harry didn’t look up to see the other boy’s expression.

The empty chair scrapped over the stone floor until it was butted up against Harry’s. The seat under him buckled and bent, twisting together with the second chair in ribbons of fabric, stuffing, and wood, until the utilitarian chairs where a low, Victorian-styled loveseat. It looked identical to one Harry had seen in the slytherin common room. Every detail was the same, down to the twining serpents carved into the silvery wood, except for the cushions. They were a dark, soft velvet instead of the stiff, scratchy fabric he didn’t have a name for.

Behind her desk, Redax shuddered violently at the display of wandless magic.

Tom gave his creation an onceover, nodding in satisfaction. He sat down, tucking himself into Harry’s side, and laid his head on Harry’s shoulder. Something in Harry loosened.

“You were saying, Redax?” He managed a wobbly grin.

“It will please you to know that Sirius Black—” His hand twitched. Tom laced their fingers together and rubbed his thumb soothingly into Harry’s pulse. “—is currently serving three life sentences in Azkaban for his part in your parents’ deaths.”

Taking a deep breath, he nodded.

“Okay.” Harry took another breath. “Okay.” So, Black was in prison. That . . . wasn’t good enough.

His account manager stared at them, mouth pulled into a deep frown. She seemed to be weighing some decision, glancing between their faces and the ring of violet around Harry’s wrist. Finally, the goblin nodded. She opened a drawer to remove a small box.

“Normally, you would not be seeing this until you sat your O.W.L.s,” Redax explained. “However, as the sole remaining blood of House Potter, this is yours.” Slowly, Redax slid the box across her desk.

Harry and Tom leaned forward to get a closer look.

Made from a pale, golden wood, the box was the size of his fist. It had a craving of roaring lion’s head on the lid, with chips of red stone gleaming in place of the lion’s eyes. Around the lid’s lip was a string of scarlet words written in a language Harry couldn’t identify.

Redax waved at the box expectantly.

Hesitantly, Harry picked it up and opened it. Sitting in white velvet was a gold ring bearing a large, square garnet. Embossed on the stone’s surface was a coat of arms, a rearing lion holding a sword in its mouth. The ring was simple and plain, but somehow managed to be intimidating. His hands shook as he pulled it from its resting place. This had been in Harry’s family for generations. His father had worn it, as had his grandfather before him—and now it was Harry’s turn.

He moved to put it on.

“It goes on the middle finger of the right hand, not the left,” Tom said gently.

The other boy plucked the ring from his fingers, rotating it so the lion faced outward. He held up Harry’s right hand and slid the ring on the correct finger. With a please hum, Tom smiled at the ring, turning Harry’s hand slightly so he could watch the light reflect off it.

Alright then. Either the other boy was _very fond_ of jewelry, or this solved whatever concerns he’d had before. Harry wasn’t going to ask.

“Now,” Redax picked up a file and passed it over to Harry, “these are the banking statements from the past two decades. You’ll notice that there have been . . . certain discrepancies within your estate.”

They were going to be here for a long time.

She went on to explain that, somehow, Dumbledore had accessed his vaults and removed gold and various artifacts, including the bank’s copies of his parents’ wills. He’d gotten away with it at the time by claiming to be his guardian—something that had never been verified by the attending clerks and was patently false. Gringotts was now looking into all the accounts Dumbledore had ever interacted with to build a case file against him, and would Harry please sign these documents allowing his accounts to be used as evidence?

Numbly, Harry signed.

Tom leafed through a dossier of Potter properties as the goblin walked Harry through the red tape. More documents were passed around and signed. Redax made copies of everything, setting the new documents into a leather case which she gave to Harry. Finally, they reached the end of their business.

“Fine anything interesting, Tom?” Harry looked over his shoulder. He desperately wanted something to distract him from Dumbledore and the theft.

“Yes,” he said, flicking his gaze up to meet Harry’s, “but you won’t like it.” He pulled out a sheet of parchment and gave it to Harry. “A marriage contract.”

Redax slammed her hands down, shooting to her feet. Harry stared.

“ _What?_ ” she snarled. “Gringotts has no record of a contract being filed for Harry James Potter. This—” The wood under her hands splintered.

Harry looked down at the parchment. It looked official to him, everything signed, dated, and stamped. But something wasn’t right. Harry had never seen his parents’ handwriting before, but he recognized the writing on the contract from Christmas. A tremor started in his jaw and oozed down his body. The parchment wrinkled and tore in his hands.

Albus Dumbledore and Molly Weasley had forged it, and then hidden it.

But _why_?


End file.
